


double fault

by roommate



Series: shadow doubles [4]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-22 22:51:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2524619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roommate/pseuds/roommate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sports injury doesn't mean screwing up a relationship. (<b>Warning/s:</b> underage sex, public sex | Written for the second round of <a href="http://justgetlayd.livejournal.com/37953.html">justgetlayd</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	double fault

To anybody who has seen Zitao play, it's been a long time coming. To fans who Zitao claims he has – and maybe he does, because there's a good number of girls groaning at his withdrawal from the match – it's unacceptable. Zitao approaches the net with grace, though, and the humility of a true sportsman, shakes the hand of his opponent then turns to the crowd to give them a curt bow. Zitao is careful not to bend his back too much, or to ball his hands into fists. One wrong move can end his career forever.

So when he returns to the box with lips pressed tightly together, Yixing only says, "Shit happens to the best of us."

Zitao looks up, cracks up a little and snorts. He winces at the sudden jerk of his body, still not used to his injury, but smiles anyway. "That's not supposed to make me feel better, is it?" he asks, the corners of his mouth lifting a little, and Yixing shrugs. He reaches over to ruffle Zitao's hair. Zitao leans in briefly, a moment of respite, and then he's back on his feet, talking to Coach Jung about how they can fix this mess.

Beside Yixing, Lu Han whispers, "He had it coming," but the slump of his shoulders says more than it should.

The ruckus dies down after a while. Yixing wades through the mess in his tennis bag and fishes for his racket. He just had this restrung a few days ago, after taking a heavy forehand from Lu Han. He clamps his nails on the strings, testing the tension, until he feels a warm hand on his shoulder, the touch feather-light. This isn't Lu Han whose heat seeps through his tennis shirt. It's an unfamiliar pressure pressing down on his shoulder.

When he turns around, Zitao's smile greets him. "Bring 'em down, ge," Zitao says, voice lilting. His eyes are half-mast, sort of red and swollen. The upward tug of his lips doesn't rip through the corners, though. "Win the match for me."

Yixing returns the smile and gives Zitao's cheek a light jab, knuckles grazing Zitao's skin. Zitao chuckles. "I'll make sure they regret taking you down."

 

 

Yixing clinches the victory in three tough sets – 6-4 5-7 7-5 – but not without a few hiccups. Halfway through the second set, he'd gotten the worst case of cramps, and Lu Han was grimacing the whole time Coach Jung was crouched low and giving Yixing's leg a gentle rub. "Hey, you can't lose now," were Lu Han's words of encouragement, but he couldn't fool anyone with the tousled hair, bruised lips, fist marks in the wrinkles in his shirt. He looked like shit and Yixing liked this shit face of his, enough to catch Lu Han in a headlock and bury his face in Lu Han's hair when he finally felt his legs and feet again.

"I won't," Yixing had mumbled then. Lu Han shivered. "I'm mister Zhang 'not gonna lose because of Lu Han' Yixing, remember?"

"Don't bring me into this," Lu Han had replied. He had his elbow twisted in Yixing's stomach. One of the tennis officials approached their box, saying that medical timeout was over. Yixing pressed a kiss to the back of Lu Han's head and pulled away with an easy smile.

Lu Han throws his arms around him now, despite still being stained with sweat, and buries his head in the crook of Yixing's neck. "Fuck you, you had me worrying for a second there," Lu Han whispers.

Yixing pulls away, looks up, cocks his head. He waits for a follow up other than Lu Han worrying his bottom lip, darting out his tongue between his lips before sucking it back in. He doesn't get it. Instead, he gets pulled into a hug by Joonmyun, then a one-armed hug by Minseok, and then a bone-crushing one by Coach Jung. Zitao's there at the end of the line, his non-tennis hand up in the air for a high-five. There's a lump in his back from where the bandage is. His playing hand looks as if it's just been used as a prop for The Mummy Returns.

"I was hoping for a 6-4 sweep," Zitao says, teasing.

Yixing meets his hand in a light clap. "I'm not as merciless as you are," he answers. A grin breaks across his features. "I'm sorry."

"Ah, ge…" Zitao shakes his head, shoots him a look of disappointment that looks more like he's trying to figure out how to get mad at anyone. Zitao isn't void of a mean streak, but he's nice 99% of the time. The remaining 1% of snark is reserved for when Lu Han teases him. "If you keep doing that, _I'll_ beat _your_ sorry ass."

Yixing cocks an eyebrow. "Oh? I'd like to see you try."

Zitao leans back for a second, furrows his eyebrows, and then he's back – a light flush on his cheeks. "Whatever. Thanks for the save, ge. I… I'm glad you won."

Yixing stares at him for a while then reaches up, threading his fingers through Zitao's hair. He hates the gel Zitao uses – his fingers always get stuck, give him a reason to hang around longer, give him an excuse to not pull away at once. Zitao giggles, leans into the touch, and in the moment of respite, he feels the heat of Zitao's laughter crawl under his skin and take residence inside him, left of his chest.

"Ice cream later?" Zitao asks on their way back, before taking the seat opposite the row Yixing and Lu Han are in. Lu Han looks up, grins at Zitao. "No, not you. Just Yixing ge."

"I hate you," Lu Han growls. He hooks an arm around Yixing's own and pulls Yixing closer, then leans on Yixing's shoulder.

Yixing cranes, meeting Zitao in the eye. "Yeah, sure." He feels Lu Han's cold fingers dance up his arm, shifting in his seat, feels the light, almost unnoticeable press of Lu Han's lips on his neck. His throat tightens. "Your treat?"

"Yeah," Zitao replies. He isn't looking at Yixing – his eyes are on the back of Lu Han's head, the mystery unfolding just beyond the shield of Lu Han's hair. Yixing tries to keep a straight face in the heat of Lu Han's mouth pressed to his skin. Zitao isn't convinced. "Sure, my treat."

 

 

Lu Han drags him into light backhand practice when they get back to school. "You're doing the slice wrong. Don't hold back on the follow through," Yixing reminds Lu Han, one hand on Lu Han's wrist as he pushes Lu Han's arm back, then shows him the proper swinging motion. There's a bit of resistance from Lu Han, like he's trying to rebel against Yixing or maybe he just wants to _play_ , but Yixing presses on, grips Lu Han's wrist tighter.

"Stop acting like a kid."

"I'm not," Lu Han argues. He does the downward swing, grins when Yixing nods on impulse to commend his work. "Don't get too chummy with Tao."

"Oh come on, he lost. He's injured–"

"He's alive and he'll recover if he follows the doctor's instruction to the very last detail." Lu Han presses his free hand down on Yixing's own, trying to pry himself from Yixing's grasp. "He's _Zitao._ "

"And we're teammates," Yixing says in return. He takes one step closer, though, runs his thumb along the crease in the furrow of Lu Han's eyebrows. Lu Han doesn't say anything, simply smiles, letting his shoulders fall forward. "Now go, get dressed. You're up against Kyunghee tomorrow. Don't lose."

"Watch closely, Zhang," Lu Han says, grinning. His eyes are as bright as his smile. "Watch how a true champion plays."

Zitao's outside the locker room when Yixing goes back. Yixing gives Lu Han a high-five when they pass each other, fingers locking for a while before letting go. "I was beginning to think he'd keep you to himself forever," Zitao says now, scoffing, then sticks a tongue out at Lu Han when Lu Han looks over his shoulder. At best, Zitao's just trying to keep a promise; at worst, he's being fiercely possessive.

"Sorry for making you wait," he replies, then sits beside Zitao when Zitao pats the empty space. Still sticky from practice, he maintains a good distance from Zitao. Not everyone appreciates tennis sweat, even players. "How's your back?"

Zitao shrugs, chuckles but chokes somewhere along the way. "Not hurting as much. It's just a bit–" He reaches behind him, feeling the bandaged part, and Yixing slaps his hand away. "Uncomfortable?"

Yixing reaches out to ruffle Zitao's hair, but instead Zitao scoots closer, head falling on Yixing's shoulder. "D'you think I'll ever get back to playing, ge?"

The reality is that any tennis injury, once it hits, will haunt you forever. Del Potro was never quite the same after his wrist surgery, the same with Djokovic. Nadal always got blisters in his playing hand and never got rid of his back pain permanently. A change in playing style is required and in the hands of a trainer whose only goal is to make Zitao fire one heavy ball after the other, avoiding the injury after the first fall isn't possible. There are two ways to look at Zitao's attitude towards playing – he's persistent, always trying to get the tough shots, trying to keep the rally strokes to a single digit, or he's stubborn, putting strain on his body with a playing style so aggressive.

"You want to know the truth?" Yixing asks now, offering a small smile in an effort to not make Zitao feel miserable. Zitao juts out his bottom lip, furrows his eyebrows, and nods. Yixing gulps hard. "Yes, and no."

Zitao shifts a little. Yixing can feel the heat of Zitao's breath on his skin, Zitao's right reaching out to land on Yixing's knee. "That's not the answer I needed to hear."

Yixing chuckles. "You said you wanted to hear the truth. And the truth is that yes, you _might_ still be able to play, but you'll have to be extra careful. Sit out the entire season, maybe." Zitao pinches the tip of his nose; he almost sneezes, but he ends up chuckling, instead. "If you don't, well, it's downhill from there."

"There's a good doctor in Germany, I think. I mean, I heard Joonmyun-hyung and Minseok-hyung talking about it–"

"But they'll need your help, Tao." Yixing twists in his seat and snakes a hand around Zitao's shoulder, then reaches up to ruffle Zitao's hair. Zitao makes this tiny indiscernible sound as he leans closer, face now buried in the crook of Yixing's neck. "Say you receive good treatment from the doctors in Germany. Okay, that's great! But if you keep pushing yourself, if you hold your racket too tight again–"

Zitao grumbles. "It's _just_ my grip."

"It's _your grip._ " Yixing taps the tip of Zitao's nose until Zitao is scrunching it. "If you screw up the very basics then you'll be screwed up forever."

" _Very consoling,_ ge." Zitao's smiling, though, albeit a bit tight at the corners. Zitao slides his hand on Yixing's thigh up up _up_ , until the pads of his fingers are tickling Yixing's inner thigh. "But… thank you."

Yixing looks at Zitao's hand, the distance between them, Zitao's eyelashes. Zitao's eyes are half-mast, hooded, but the gentle craning of Zitao's neck speaks a different language. He holds his breath, chokes down the gasp that threatens to fall from his lips when he feels Zitao's lips on his neck. "For what?"

"For listening." Zitao leans in, pressing a light kiss to the underside of Yixing's jaw. Yixing's breath hitches. "And for telling me what I needed to hear."

Yixing turns to face Zitao and Zitao follows, snakes his hand up Yixing's neck. Yixing shivers at the contact, at the light brush of skin against skin, at Zitao's breath, hot and heady, on his neck. Zitao presses his tongue flat on Yixing's neck and for a moment Yixing's concerned that he's fresh from training, the sweat and grime of the air still stuck on his skin, but Zitao doesn't seem to mind. All that occurs to Zitao right now is the strange fit of their bodies, Yixing's heavy breathing, Yixing's hands fisted in Zitao's shirt as he says, "What are you doing?"

"Please, ge? I just–" Zitao looks away, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. The white light outside casts Zitao a sick glow, but the light flush on his cheeks softens the angles of his face, the rough edges. "Please. Just once, and then never again."

Yixing closes his eyes, gulps hard, takes a deep breath. _And for telling me what I needed to hear,_ Zitao's voice echoes in his mind, so he says, croaking, "Okay." He threads his fingers through Zitao's hair, and Zitao's breath hitches. "Okay."

The light outside the locker room flickers. By now, the courts have been stripped of sweaty players and the locker room in empty, but Zitao is impatient, his well hand pressing down on Yixing's thigh as he leans close. Yixing meets him halfway, lips slightly parted, and Zitao takes this as an invitation to capture Yixing's bottom lip between his own. Zitao is rough – both on court and here, on the bench, the beginnings of autumn thick in the cool brush of the air on their skin. Yixing tilts his head, opening up some more, and soon Zitao is licking the back to his teeth, the roof of his mouth, a clash of tongues in the heated cavern of Yixing's mouth.

"Easy–" Yixing whispers, but too late – Zitao's climbing on his lap, mouth still caught in the inelegant slide of Yixing's own. Yixing sucks on Zitao's tongue as he slides a hand up Zitao's back, careful not to add too much pressure on Zitao's lower back. Zitao's bandaged hand is rested on the bench, the stretch straining Zitao's arm as he winces, but Zitao keeps kissing, sucking, licking, dipping his head to leave marks on the slope of Yixing's neck.

Zitao bites on the skin just above Yixing's collarbones and Yixing gasps, throwing his head back. He can feel the twitch of his dick, the strain in his pants, Zitao own erection pressed to his stomach. "Ge, can you please–" He nods after taking a shaky breath, slips his free hand between them and runs a stripe along Zitao's dick through his shorts, palm pressing down with just enough pressure to create friction. Zitao's face falls forward, finding a fit in the crook of Yixing's neck, and the warm sensation sends a sizzle of his down his abdomen. 

The light flickers again, like a reminder that they're out here and not in the safety of the locker room, nothing to shield them from the rest of the world but their hazy vision. Zitao shifts, grinding his ass against Yixing's arousal, and Yixing's mind goes blank, takes him to an empty space where even the bounce of the balls can't reach him, no Lu Han to tell him, _hey, you can't lose,_ nothing to bring him back but the warm fit of Zitao's body in his.

"Let me do all the work," he whispers in Zitao's ear, and Zitao nods, the grip on Yixing's arm grows tighter.

Yixing starts out with easy strokes, a light run of the thumb along Zitao's length, rubbing at the slit, but Zitao groans and whispers, "Please, ge, just touch me–" He dips his hand in the waistband of Zitao's shorts, reaching for Zitao's balls to give them a light squeeze, and he feels every inch of Zitao tense at the contact. Zitao's skin is hot to touch, his lips so wet and warm on Yixing's neck. Zitao sucks and sucks until Yixing feels a sharp sting on his skin, and he replies in kind by wrapping his fingers around Zitao's cock, a loose fist that slowly tightens with each leisurely stroke. Zitao bucks his hips on impulse and Yixing stops, teasing, then runs his thumb along the slit of Zitao's cock before pumping again. Zitao bites on the sensitive skin then laves his tongue on the area as if in apology, but if anything Yixing considers it another strike, a good shot to the corners, sending a warm thrum of arousal to his groin.

Yixing keeps a steady hand on Zitao's back even as Zitao hooks his arm around Yixing's neck, rolling his hips with every jerk of Yixing's hand on his dick. Arousal crawls under his skin like wildfire, sets explosions to the tips of his fingers, and soon he's rocking his hips in tandem with Zitao's movement. Zitao is close now – he can feel it in the tremble of Zitao's lips on his skin, in the way his thighs tense at each touch, each thrust, each brush of his ass against Yixing's erection, in the way Zitao whispers, "Ge, I'm going to–" Yixing leans back and sucks on the underside of Zitao's jaw, nips at Zitao's earlobe, and soon Zitao is spilling in his hands, the words _Yixing–ge–_ caught in a throaty moan. Zitao doesn't stop moving, though, rolls his hips again and again, brushes his balls against Yixing's erection, and Yixing comes with a quiet gasp caught in the open press of Zitao's mouth.

The light flickers a few more times but everything gets caught in a white haze, the cheer of the crowd after a great game, the memory of Lu Han's hand, warm, on his shoulder, Lu Han's ugly face and toothy grin and the wonder in his eyes as he says, _Well, that wasn't so bad. Great game._ Yixing keeps his eyes closed as he pulls his hand away, wiping Zitao's cum on his shorts. He stays until Zitao comes down from it and rests his palm on Zitao's back, guiding him inside the locker room.

 

 

Yixing appears on Lu Han's doorstep at nine in the evening.

It's a fairly quick trip – Gangnam is just a train ride away, after all – but there's still a look of confusion on Lu Han's face when he opens the door. He mentioned his parents going on a trip until the end of the week, so it's perfect timing. Or good timing, at the very least, since it's already late in the evening. "I missed your ugly face," Yixing explains, and Lu Han shrugs, then takes a side step to let Yixing in.

"I didn't know I was _that_ good looking," Lu Han says. His voice is soft, tentative, but there's still the signature lilt like he's asking if it's okay for Yixing to step inside his house. It's weird. Lu Han is weird.

On a normal day, Yixing would probably shove his palm in Lu Han's face, but even after a shower he knows he still smells like sex and something weird at the pit of his stomach. So he makes a beeline for Lu Han's couch, instead, plops down there like he owns the place and retrieves two packs of Binggrae from his bag. "I made sure to not squish them," he mumbles, shuffling to a corner of the couch, and Lu Han just laughs, loud and shrill, in response.

"Do you want me to ask how your day went?" Lu Han asks now, tearing the package of the Binggrae open and handing it to Yixing. "Or do you just want us to watch Gundam or something until your parents call?"

"I already called them, told them I'm staying the night."

"Oh, that's good. I mean–" Lu Han places the pack down on the table, then runs his fingers along the curve of Yixing's face. "O-okay?"

"Okay," Yixing repeats, nodding, then takes a bite off the Binggrae before leaning in to press their lips together. The fit is a bit weird, awkward, and Yixing has always hated cold food because they're a pain in the ass to eat, but Lu Han sinks into the touch, tilts his neck and opens up until Yixing can push in the piece between Lu Han's lips with his tongue. He can feel the slow-forming smile on Lu Han's lips, the sticky slide of their mouths, the cool sensation slowly leaving as the ice cream melts, and Yixing only presses closer, sucks on the corners of Lu Han's lips, licks and licks until there's nothing in his mouth but the taste of Lu Han.

"That was gross," Lu Han says when he pulls away, lips swollen and red. There's a smudge of ice cream flaunted on a corner of his lips so Yixing chuckles, leans back in, committing to memory the feeling of Lu Han silly grin against his skin, the movement of Lu Han's lips, the way their bodies align.


End file.
